This morning I received a message from his mother, which is a new level of horrifying. I’ve avoided listening to it up until now. Her voice is worse than death metal with a migraine.

“Amalie, darling, you’ve made your point. I understand that Armstrong has upset you, however, I think we all know what’s best here. This happens to all of us. Now I realize in this case the circumstances were less than ideal, but I’ve talked to Armstrong and he’s willing to find a way to make amends for this indiscretion. You can’t run from this forever, darling.”

She’s partially right, I’m running from the bad decisions I’ve made in the name of making my family happy, which is hilariously ironic, because it seems like no matter what I do, I make the wrong decision. I’m also running from the fear that I’m destined to end up like my parents, always pushing away instead of finding someone I can stand next to in this life. But, it doesn’t mean I have any desire to reconcile with Armstrong.

Since I arrived, I’ve talked to my own mother once to let her know I’m safe. My dad was out golfing when I called, but she assured me twice that everything was fine. I don’t want the stress to impact her health, and fights between her and my father can do that. Her major concern seems to lie with me making poor choices while I’m away. She reminded me that we don’t want a repeat of Mexico, especially since I’m still technically married to Armstrong. Something I’ve been trying to forget.

A brief text conversation with Pierce informs me he’s still working on getting the annulment papers into Armstrong’s hands, but he’s having trouble getting past his secretary, which explains Armstrong’s most recent voicemail.

I’m currently sitting in one of the lounge chairs facing the beach. I’ve stopped eating meals in the dining hall. Instead, I order room service so I don’t have to deal with all the happy, in love couples.

I’ve read four books, all of them murder mysteries because I can’t stomach romance. As I bring up the latest one on my e-reader, the crunch of tires on gravel draws my gaze toward the path beyond the hut. I can’t see anything, though, my location is that private. I sigh at the thought of another excessively happy couple coming to join the endless party of love. Screw everyone and their happiness. My bitterness is like a black cloud of doom, blocking out the warmth and sunshine. I hate this fucking place.

The golf cart doesn’t continue past my hut; instead it slows. I already have my breakfast. I haven’t planned an excursion for today—yesterday’s scuba diving was horrible since, as usual, I was the only single one. The worst part of the whole trip so far has been being propositioned by the newly married couple in their early fifties to join them in a threesome.

My stomach does a flippy thing at the possibility that I might have a visitor. What if Lexington has come to check up on me? I haven’t messaged or called him, even though I’ve thought about it every day, multiple times a day. I rationalize that he was nice to me in the airport and on the plane because he felt bad for me, and because he didn’t have much of a choice since he was stuck beside me for eighteen hours.

My phone rings. It’s Ruby. Conversations with her haven’t been easy since the reception is weak everywhere apart from the resort lounge. Again, it’s all couples being coupley there, too, so I try to avoid it. I answer the call, the terrible reception making her difficult to hear.

“Hey, hold on. I’m going to try and find the magic spot.” I push out of my chair and head for the spot where I get reasonable reception.

“Armstrong . . . for you . . .”

“What?” Her tone makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

A blip of static-free reception means the next words from Ruby are clear. “He’s in Bora Bora.”

“But he doesn’t have a passport.”

“Apparently he has a new one. Or a spare. I don’t know the details but I do know he’s on his way to you. He posted on social media.”

“Fuckerdoodles.” I check the accounts he posts to most often. There’s a selfie of him in front of the resort sign. He really is here. As in here, here. I do not want to deal with Armstrong. I’m not ready. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready. I’m actually perfectly content to have my brother, or someone from his firm and Armstrong’s lawyer, hash it all out without ever speaking to him again.

“I would’ve called sooner, but he posted it like five minutes ago and Bane saw it so he called me, now I’m telling you.”

As I step onto the deck, the hut door opens and one of the bellhops wheels in Armstrong’s suitcases. He has four. I came with two, plus my tickle trunk. “He’s here. I have to go.”

“Oh shit. What’re you going to do?”

“Mostly I just want to punch him.”

“That’s a fabulous idea. You should do that then, just don’t break anything. Maybe aim for soft spots, like his abs, or his balls.”

I laugh. “I’ll call you back when I get rid of him.” I set my phone on the table, crossing my arms over my chest to stop the tremble in my hands.

Armstrong appears behind the concierge. He’s wearing a pair of khaki pants, white shoes, and a bright pink polo. His blond hair is styled with what is likely the majority of a bottle of some kind of product. A splint across his nose and the black eye hidden behind sunglasses mars his face.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

The concierge’s eyes go wide. Armstrong hurriedly stuffs money in his hand and pushes him out the door.

He gives me his signature smile. “Darling, please.”

“Don’t ‘darling, please’ me, you prickless asshole.”

“Amalie.” That’s his warning tone because my language isn’t to his liking.

“Fuck you, Armstrong. You don’t get to come here and chastise me. I will use whatever the fuck kind of language I damn well feel like.” I stress every curse word. “You might as well turn your ass around and find somewhere else to go, there’s no goddamn way you’re staying here with me.”

“This is our honeymoon. I came all this way for you. I had to jump through hoops to get a passport. I would’ve been here sooner if you hadn’t left me without one.” His tone is accusatory.

“Did you consider that maybe I didn’t want your cheating, lying ass here?”

He takes a step toward me. “You need to let me explain.”

“Explain what exactly? How your dick accidentally slipped into someone else’s mouth at our fucking wedding?” I gesture wildly, as if I’m giving him the floor to speak. “Please. This story has to be amazing.”

He rubs his chest. “I did it for you. I wanted to be able to last.”

“I’m sorry? Pardon?” I must’ve heard that wrong.

“I wanted to last for you. Later. After the reception.”

I honestly feel like my head’s going to explode. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Are you serious with this? You have hands, you could’ve whacked off in the bathroom if you were worried about your longevity, which by the way, is pretty fucking pathetic at the best of times.”

“I just get ex—”

I point a finger at him. “Shut the fuck up.”

His mouth snaps closed, possibly at my language, possibly because I might look a little crazy right now. “Did you honestly think that coming here and telling me you let Brittany, of all people, blow you during our wedding reception for my benefit was going to win me back? How delusional are you?”